


24:  There's Supposed to Be a Sign

by light_source



Series: High Heat [24]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2011-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- You know I do, Tim says - he desperately needs to respond to what Zito can’t quite say - you’re not stupid, it can’t be lost on you. What do you want me to say? <em>You know.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	24:  There's Supposed to Be a Sign

The narrow road twists through a forest of trees hung with flowers and vines so thick that Tarzan could probably swing from them. When at last they emerge at the rocky lip of the ocean, Zito pulls into an overgrown parking lot jammed with rusty Corollas and aging pickups that still have D A T S U N on their tailgates. When they get out of the Jeep, he’s hit by a waft of wood-smoke barbecue, the yelp and screech of kids playing, the thump of a muscle-car stereo. In the space next to where they’ve parked, two tattooed guys are unloading foil-wrapped trays from the bed of an El Camino full of grocery bags and beach gear. Beneath a spreading banyan tree on the park’s strip of bermuda grass, wooden picnic tables overflow with people and food. Kids dart into the parking lot, playing tag between the cars, and grownups sprawl in lawn chairs. Two dogs bound up, snuffling at their hands.

\- Jesus, reminds me of home, says Tim. Zito looks at him.

\- My mom’s family. Every Sunday when I was a kid. My grandfather always said everybody better park their legs under his table or else. My mom’s got three sisters and two brothers, and a couple of ‘em have been married two or three times. There’s twenty-seven cousins and some of them already have kids of their own.

\- You wouldn’t believe how much everyone eats, Tim continues. - We quit going, though, he says, - when my mom left.

\- Miss it? asks Zito.

\- I don’t know, says Lincecum. - It was high school, there was too much other stuff anyways, weekend practices and shit. And my dad’d rather watch football.

Tim’s sitting on the Jeep’s battered bumper, knotting the laces on his running shoes, while Zito pokes around in the back and comes up with a couple of water bottles. Suddenly, two barefoot boys have materialized from nowhere. They’re leaning shyly against the side of the Jeep, heads cocked.

\- Where you guys goin’? asks the bigger one, who’s got a Kool-Aid mustache and hair so long it licks his shoulders.

\- Black-sand beach, says Tim. He looks at the kid. - Wanna come?

The kids look at each other warily, and then back at Tim.

\- You going by the pool? the kid continues. - Cause if you are, can you tell those guys two-thirty, Mom’s gotta be at the hospital at three?

\- Kay, says Zito, - we’ll tell ‘em. The two boys dissolve away into the pack of kids that’s cruising the parking lot, passing a football back and forth in an improvised flea-flicker.

\- What pool? asks Tim.

Zito shrugs. - Guess we’ll find out.

//

The jungle’s closing in over what’s supposed to be a trail, the path shrunk to the width of a single footprint, pandanus fronds grasping at them as they run the first few miles of the route through the green darkness. When the trail forks, Zito pulls up, his hands on his hips, breathing hard.

\- No sign, he says, scrunching up his face. - Fuck. There’s supposed to be a sign.

\- Left, says Tim. - Listen. He bends over, his hands on his knees, and stops breathing long enough to tune into the dim roar of the surf.

Before Tim can straighten up, Zito takes off, leaping a snag, hurtling forward as though he’s stealing a base. As Tim struggles to catch up with him, he sees Zito’s running with his arms stuck straight out, shout-singing - _is you is, or is you ain't my baby_  - over and over, as though it’s a blues song. Tim grins so hard his teeth hurt - he can’t run that hard and laugh at the same time.

//

The trail opens out abruptly onto a shingle of coarse gray sand, then dwindles into a trough of footprints that takes them up along a ledge, a single track that threatens to crumble away from their feet. Tim slips, grabbing air, and scrambles for balance, hauling himself forward till there’s firm sand under his feet. When they round the point of the cove, the path slinks back into the dense jungle, and when Zito finally pulls up, it’s a good thing, because Tim’s seriously winded.

\- All right, you kicked my butt, so stop, Tim gasps, he's got hardly enough breath to get the words out, and Zito smiles, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling. He’s not even breathing hard as he pulls up one foot behind his bent knee, stretching out his quads.

\- Now you know how batters feel when they face _you_ , he tells Tim.

Tim gives him a good-natured shove. As they stagger back onto the trail, they’re arrested by the sound of voices, the first they’ve heard since they left the parking lot.

//

In the clearing there are clothes scattered around on the ground - a grubby tank top, a couple of pairs of shorts, a muddy Power Rangers t-shirt. Nearby is a heap of plastic wrappers, chip bags, empty beer cans, an almost-empty bottle of Southern Comfort. Just past all this, behind a thick curtain of vines and wild ginger, a jutting rise of black volcanic rock takes them up a few steps. Here are the voices - teenagers, sounds like - and sure enough, there are four kids perched across from them on the edge of a sunken pool of water the size of a circus ring, clear deep blue at its center.

They’re smoking a joint and laughing, these kids, tattooed and dark-skinned, in their wet underwear. They glance up, apparently without surprise, at the newcomers.

\- Hey, says Zito, squatting to stretch his knees.

\- Howzit, says one of the boys, leaning back against the rock. - You guys come from the park?

– Yeah, says Zito, - and I think we got a message for you - something about two-thirty because someone’s Mom has to be at the hospital by three?

\- Shit, says one of the girls, who’s wringing water out of her long dark hair. - We gotta get back if you wanna ride with them, she says to the others, - or it’s the bus. You guys know what time it is? she asks.

\- A little past two, says Tim.

\- It’s your lucky day, says one of the boys. They stand up, gathering their towels, and one of the girls dives neatly into the pool and swims to the opposite side, pulling herself up out of the water right in front of Zito and Lincecum.

\- Been here before? she asks.

Tim shakes his head.

\- Yeah, I haven’t seen you guys around. So it’s brackish, she says, - you know, part salt water and part fresh. There’s a volcanic spring below here somewhere, she says, - that’s where the warm water comes from.

Tim’s sitting down, taking off his shoes. He dips one foot in the incredibly clear water - it’s as warm as a bath, somehow effervescent. As one of the boys clambers carefully past him, the rock sharp on his bare feet, the kid hands him the half-smoked joint they’ve been sharing, and when Tim takes it from him, smiling, the kid grins back.

\- Enjoy, he says. - Not that many _haoles_ make it back in here.

As the kids gather their things and shuffle back towards the beach, the sound of their voices thins and disappears, and rain clouds close the hole in the trees above them.

//

Zito extracts a Swiss Army knife from the backpack and uses it to halve the freckled yellow mango he’s brought. He twists the pulp away from the enormous pit, then folds the leathery skin back so that he can score the flesh of each half into creamy orange diamonds. He hands one of the dripping halves to Tim, licks the juice off his thumb, and tilts his head towards the center of the pool.

\- This is the best way to eat a mango, says Zito, as the warm half-salty water laps at their shoulders, - it doesn’t matter if the juice runs down your chin.

It’s awkward, scraping the stringy pulp away from the skin with your bottom teeth, since you’re really kind of eating with your face, but Zito’s right. The mango is delicious, sweet and salty at the same time. It tastes like some exotic perfume Tim’s smelled before but can’t quite place.

\- When I’m a bitter washed-up old guy, coaching double-A in some hellhole like Bakersfield, says Tim, - I’m gonna remember this.

Zito smiles. He’s got that abstracted expression on his face, like he’s somewhere else for a moment. And then he shakes it off.

//

\- Fish, says Tim, - I can’t believe there’s _fish._

Thousands of tiny silvery fish buzz around him, fluttering against Tim’s skin, as he floats on his back, arms spread wide, here in the middle of the pool. The afternoon cloudburst has roared through - ten minutes of near-waterfall - and now drizzle is barely ruffling the surface of the warm water. Zito’s found a seat-level rock at the edge of the deepest part of the pool, near where the warmest water filters in from the spring, and he’s curled up there, his head resting against the ledge, the warm water cresting his shoulders.

\- I’m perfectly happy, Zito says. - Dangerously happy.

Tim flips onto his stomach and, head above the water, strokes over to where Zito’s sitting, one arm propped along the ledge. He pulls up in front of Zito, and his toes find the rocky bottom of the pool, slick and sharp. He looks quizzical, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s just heard.

And then Zito stretches a hand out and pulls him forward into his arms, his lips cool against Tim’s warm skin, their mouths slowly finding each other’s curves, still sweet from the fruit, and then, no warning, straight up into heat, with the intensity of a flash of insight.

//

The bar has a maritime theme, so there are rusted anchors and big cleats on the walls. The ceiling’s hung with netting studded with plastic starfish and sand dollars, and the waitresses are wearing arch versions of pirate costumes, short skirts and peasant blouses, with plastic cutlasses slung on belts around their hips. Their waitress has pushed her eyepatch up onto the top of her head like a pair of sunglasses; she bends over a little too far, flashing an expanse of tanned cleavage, as she deals them fuzzy paper coasters.

\- I’m Misty and I’ll be taking care of you tonight, she begins, talking through a fixed smile, and Tim does his best to tune out the rest of the spiel. The band’s playing Jimmy Buffett and half the patrons in the bar are singing along drunkenly: _\- searchin’ for my-ee-eye. . .lost shaker of salt._

It’s the third bar in Kona’s tourist ghetto they’ve hit tonight, and it's OK with Tim that the noise of the band makes talking difficult. It's his last night here, and his mind has already migrated towards the mainland and the long gray month that’s stretching ahead of him.

\- Six guys, shouts Wilson over the smashing-glass sound of the drum set, - the A’s traded Danny Haren for _six guys_. It’s like some horrible joke you don’t wanna hear about a guy named Abdul and his camels.

Braden rolls his eyes. - It’s the Beane way, he says. - ‘S like raising catfish, he says, sounding down-home. - You wind up eating some of ‘em and selling some of ‘em. Billy dudn’t let anybody get too big.

Zito’s looking at the base of his shot glass, the tip of his tongue at the corner of his mouth.

\- Yeah, well, I’m OK with that, Zito says. - For obvious reasons. I guess, he continues, - I’d rather be sold than eaten.

The table gets quiet, a moment that grows even more awkward as the waitress arrives with their second round of drinks.

\- You’re the one that got away, says Brian to Zito. - You were like the experiment that didn’t work, Zeets, the front office learned their lesson with you. They coulda cashed you in for half a minor-league team. So this time they made sure they sold Haren when he was just ready for market.

\- Or before he slipped through the net, says Braden.

\- Green was never my color, says Zito evenly. - Black’s good - it’s always correct, goes day-to-evening. No need to change for dinner.

\- I wonder how Danny feels about dirt-bag red, says Wilson, relentless. - And Phoenix.

\- I saw him in November, before the trade went through, says Zito carefully, - we talked about it.

He’s a little flushed, and he’s pulled his arms back across his chest, and brought one foot up to the empty chair beside him.

\- And he's OK with it, Zito continues, not looking at Brian. - What choice does he have? You never know where you’re gonna be, he says, - so enjoy it while it lasts.

//

On the way back, behind the wheel of the two-seater jeep, Zito follows the red lights of the Land Cruiser, which Wilson's driving, up the precipitous road to the house. Brian makes a fetish of driving fast, and this time Zito’s taking the sharp turns so aggressively that Tim has to grab the roll-bar to keep from being tossed out of the seat.

\- Sorry, says Zito. - Don’t know what’s got into me.

\- Brian, says Tim. - He does that.

//

When they get back to the house, Nate turns on the all-India cricket finals - it’s daytime in Mumbai - and he’s explaining batsmen andinnings and wickets to the very drunk Dallas and Brian. Tim, figuring this is too good to miss and anyway he’ll sleep tomorrow on the plane, is in his room trying to remember where he put his stash.

Abruptly Zito’s there, closing Tim’s door behind him, quietly, and he puts a finger to his lips. Tim, who’s been digging mindlessly through his gym bag, hardly has time to turn around when Zito takes him in his arms and slams him up against the door, pressing in, hard with muscle and arousal.

Both of his hands are on Tim’s neck, his thumbs on Tim’s jaw, and his tongue's all over in Tim’s mouth, searching, and Tim feels himself melt against the door, his mouth opening wider, smitten by this urgency he hasn’t felt before from Zito, the man who's got slow in his hands.

\-  I want you, Zito whispers, it's almost a moan, -  _now._

Surely it doesn’t matter that the walls in this place are paper-thin, and they’re both conspicuously absent from the cricket-match-watching, and everyone’s well aware that it’s Tim’s last night in Hawaii, and _this is what lovers do_ \- surely it just doesn’t fucking matter.

It’s scary and it’s strange and it’s making Tim crazed with desire - he’s put himself entirely in Zito’s hands, literally and figuratively, and as Zito lays him back against the pillows on the narrow bed, with its scratchy Indian bedspread, Tim feels like he’s fifteen again, and it’s the first time anyone’s touched him.

\- You don’t, says Zito, pulling his mouth away from Tim’s just at the moment when Tim feels like he really doesn’t want to stir from this spot, ever, his hands tangled in Zito’s hair, - you won’t, you’re so fucking _self-contained._  I can't - 

Tim’s nearly beyond words himself, in that best-kind-of-trance he only manages to call up - without knowing quite how - on the days when everything falls effortlessly into place.

\- You know I do, Tim says - he desperately needs to respond to what Zito can’t quite say - you’re not stupid, it can’t be lost on you. What do you want me to say? _You know._

And when he feels Zito inside him, their hips moving together, Zito’s tongue in his mouth, Zito's sweat dripping onto his face, Zito’s heart slamming against his chest, he almost wishes he were blind and deaf so he could do nothing more than feel this moment, save it, not let it be anything else but what it is.

 

 

 


End file.
